No Saint

by Jo Raven

  All I get in reply is a sneer, or a snarl, not sure which. He has his teeth bared like a wolf, hands balled into fists. His nails are filthy with dirt and car oil.

  Why would a guy like him have a swan inked on his ribs? I’m dying to ask, but instead, I grab a paper towel and dab at the wounds, wiping away blood. I uncap the antiseptic cream I got from the drugstore. “What if you need stitches? You’ve bled a lot.”

  “I’ll survive. Don’t need no stitches.”

  “Okay, tough guy. Someone came at you with a knife. You have to report this.”

  “Didn’t you hear a fucking word I said? I can’t.”

  “But surely—”

  “What the hell, woman, are you a fucking retard? I said no.” He’s on his feet, towering over me, and I’m not that short. Instinctively I flinch and back away.

  But he’s not moving, and once my instinctive panic has faded, I lift my chin at him. “You won’t talk to me like that ever again, do you hear, Ross Jones?”

  I’m not taking any more of this, not from him or anyone.

  He’s silent for a few beats, breathing hard, sweat beading his brow. He’s scowling but his gaze is faraway. “Sure,” he grunts. “Okay.”

  “Calling someone that is just wrong.”

  “Fuck. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he nods. Shrugs. “That’s what Dad always called me. Well, and some other choice words, but I’m not calling you those, am I?”

  And he’s doing it again. I want to be upset with him, but how can I, when he says things like that, looking earnest and confused?

  A deep sadness wells up inside me. Damn you, Ross. Damn you for hitting below the belt and twisting my heart into knots, for bringing back all those thoughts about your dad and how he raised you and how close you were all those years and yet how far.

  “Your dad isn’t a good example,” I choke out.

  “Fuck me, I know. You kidding me? He’s the world’s biggest jackhole.” His gaze meets mine, wary, tired, eyes lined with pain. “Look, I’m... I’m sorry, okay?”

  I can’t believe my ears. Knock me over with a feather.

  Ross just apologized.

  “Okay. Duly noted.” I try to sound nonchalant even as I cling to that word of apology, hope and relief warring inside me. “But saying you’re sorry isn’t enough.”

  I’m not only talking about now. Does he get it? Does he understand that I’m referring to the past?

  “What do you mean? Dad would’ve knocked my teeth out if I apologized to anyone.”

  I have a sudden, fierce urge to go find his dad and punch him in the face.

  “What I mean is that actions trump words. That’s what my dad taught me.” And I grab the gauze and tape I bought and start tearing the packages open. “Now sit back down so I can wrap those cuts before they get infected. Then I got to run home. Dad and Josh are waiting for me to have dinner. Dad’s making his famous stew.”

  And why am I telling him this, about my private life, my family, my one safe place? When did my mind decide to start trusting him without consulting with me?

  Chapter Twelve

  Ross

  I’m sitting on a stool in the kitchen of Mike’s Diner with a pretty girl right in front of me, frowning in concentration, the tip of her pink tongue sticking out of her mouth as she tapes gauze over the cuts in my side.

  If I wasn’t feeling like death warmed over, I’d have a pretty fucking inappropriate—or maybe appropriate—reaction to her closeness. I’m half-hard as it is, from the touch of her fingertips, the tickle of her hair on my bared skin, the brush of those soft tits on my thighs as she half-crouches down to secure the gauze.

  I’m not dead yet. I’d have to be, not to react to a girl this pretty, despite the anger I’ve seen flashing in her eyes, the sadness in her voice, that I put there. Despite this being the mother of all bad ideas.

  “Saying you’re sorry isn’t enough.”

  Then what the hell am I supposed to do? And why is she still here, still helping me, her touch so fucking soft I wanna break something, yell and curse and run, anything but take it, feel it—knowing it won’t fucking last. It makes me want things, feel things.

  I can’t do this. I’m not supposed to feel anything, not anymore.

  “Actions trump words.” She said that, too. What in the fucking hell does she expect from me? No-one’s ever expected something good from the likes of me. I don’t know how to deal with it, how to figure it out.

  And then someone else is there, beside us. A shadow against the light.

  A voice says, “Ross? That you?”

  I flinch before my brain can register the tone, the pitch.

  But it’s just another girl, not as pretty as mine, but I guess you could confuse them in the dark, with chestnut hair and bright eyes, curious like a cat’s. In the dark only—and only if you couldn’t smell Luna’s light scent, see the line of her face and body, hear her voice.

  Damn. I’ve got it so damn bad. It was all good and well while she was away and I was distracted with being in prison and dad trying to kill me, but the moment she came back I went back to square one. Hot lust, confusion, and rash, stupid decisions.

  Like right now, sitting here, torn between grabbing and kissing her and bolting through the half-open door. If I mess with her... the whole town will come at me with pitchforks. Prison will be a relief.

  “Ross and Luna?” The girl is staring at us, with what looks like a teasing gleam in her eyes. “I was right, then, wasn’t I?”

  Right about what?

  “Hey, Dena,” Luna blurts, standing up, a flush spreading over her cheeks. “No, you weren’t. I was just—”

  “—undressing Ross. Yes, I have eyes and can see.”

  “No! That’s not...” The flush darkens. “Anyway, we’re done here.”

  Right. I guess this is my cue to go. The world tilts sharply when I push off the stool, but I lock my knees and stay upright, clenching my jaw.

  “Go home,” I tell Luna who’s still red in the face and looking anywhere but at me. “Thanks for the help.”

  “You’re welcome,” my girl says.

  My. Girl.

  When did I decide she’s mine and when the fuck did I completely lose my mind?

  ***

  “Ross!”

  The street keeps trying to trip me up and I shake my head to silence the voice.

  Then I stop and turn so fast my head spins. “Luna?” My mind’s hazy and I don’t know how to clear the cobwebs. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going home. We’re heading in the same direction.”

  True. Hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t thought, period. Can’t think, except... “Let me take those.” I reach for the grocery bags she’s carrying. “Give them here.”

  “No, Ross. You’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.” I take the bags from her reluctant hold. “This is nothing.”

  She shoots me a wide-eyed look as we start on the road toward Little River. “What do you mean, worse? Do you often get knifed?”

  “No. Not what I meant.” My head hurts, and strangely my arms tremble, though the bags aren’t all that heavy. “Let’s just go.”

  My childhood, growing up with dear old dad isn’t something I’ve ever talked about. But as she walks beside me, the scars on my back itch. They never bothered me. I never bothered to hide them from other girls or anyone. But with this girl, everything’s different. I wonder what she’d think of them. If she’d be disgusted. Find them goddamn ugly.

  They are goddamn ugly, no question about that, I just never cared about that before. About anyone’s opinion. Preference. Never cared about the way they look at me, never wanted to be... someone better.

  “Ross? You okay?”

  I realize I’ve stopped, the bags about to drop from my hold, the world edged with black, silver stars spinning. “Yeah.”

  “You don’t look okay. Maybe I should walk you ho
me.”

  “Home. Right.” I look up, scanning the trees ahead as if I can see it. “Dad’s house. Down by the river.”

  “That’s where you’re heading, right?”

  I dunno. I was just following the road when she caught up with me, but I nod, too tired to explain. Not sure I should. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?” She tugs the bags free of my grip, “Well, I’m late, and this is me.” She jerks her chin at the house by the road I hadn’t noticed we’d reached. “You could, um, call me. If you need anything.”

  Call her.

  She never gave me her number, and why should she? But I don’t say anything. There’s a smell of food cooking from the house, and it hits my senses suddenly, prompting my empty stomach to growl. The sound is way too fucking loud.

  It startles her.

  She opens her mouth to say something, and last thing I need is that. Whatever it is. Pity? Concern? Suspicions that I’m trying to get her to do more for me?

  So I make myself haul ass. I shove my hands into my jeans pockets and step back. “Good night, Luna.”

  She hesitates, those expressive eyes darting between me and her home, so I turn and stagger away, my back to her, to absolve her of any responsibility, any doubt.

  I make it to the side of the road, get under the cover of the tree shadows and watch her go, her steps growing lighter as she approaches the house. I see the door open, and someone takes the bags from her. I catch a glimpse of smiling faces. I feel like an intruder in a distant world, an alien on a different planet.

  Then again, what’s new? I don’t understand this world. The families. The smiles. The smell of cooked, warm food and the parents waiting at the door, the open arms and laughter echoing from inside. The lack of screaming and yelling, the quiet around other houses, the siblings playing together, having each other’s back, it’s just... incomprehensible. Inexplicable. What Octavia and Merc want me to understand, to accept, what Luna has with her family, it’s all beyond me.

  And right now, with the world spinning out of orbit and darkening at the edges, reaching my dad’s house is the only thing I can aspire to do.

  ***

  Somehow, I make it to the house, climb the steps to the porch and collapse in the rocking chair that hasn’t fallen apart yet, though it’s headed there, just like me. Rotten, crumbling, returning to the elements.

  I have the presence of mind to lift my T-shirt, check that I’m not fucking bleeding to death, but the gauze Luna taped there seems to hold just fine, and the streaks of blood below are brown and mostly dry.

  I’m just... so fucking tired. Feels like I’ve been running for years, no end in sight, no destination. Running from something, trying to outpace myself, to escape my own dark shadow.

  The river splashes softly and trickles, the trees rustle, and the darkness seeps into my vision, blotting out the landscape. I’m falling into sleep before I can fight it, sucked under, into a room I know well, dimly lit and full of ghosts.

  “Take off your shirt, boy,” my dad’s heavy voice says, and I can’t see him, but my heart is trying to climb out of my fucking throat. “Turn around. Didn’t I tell you that you’ll taste the belt if you do whatever the hell you want?”

  “Please, Dad!” The words tremble on my tongue, shameful tears gathering in my eyes, but I know better than to let them fall. “Don’t.”

  “Turn. Goddamn retard, you fucked up my life, I said turn!” And suddenly I’m without a shirt, and my back is on fire, the whistling of the belt falling on me again and again threatening to split my head. “You’re a waste of money, a waste of space.” Words, punctuated by the lashes of the belt, gouging into my back, opening lines of fire. “A burden, that’s what you are. Dead weight. Didn’t have to deal with this in the army. Real men there. So take it like a man and shut the fuck up.”

  The pain is eating at me like acid, spreading from my back to my chest to my skull, shattering me piece by piece. “Please, Dad, please...”

  And the dark thickens like molasses, the space shifts and I’m lying down, faces bent over me, sneering and laughing, and saying “Give up, Ross, just give the hell up...”

  But something soft penetrates the blackness, a silken touch on my cheek, so gentle it pierces the memory, or the dream, and brings me back to the present. I blink, wincing at the golden afternoon light slipping through the trees, and then blink again at the face leaning over me.

  “Luna,” I mumble stupidly. What the hell?

  I thought I’d woken up but maybe I’m still dreaming.

  Have to be, because why would she be here? And there’s a smell of food, so strong my stomach grumbles angrily. My body’s worse than Buddy once it’s decided it needs sustenance, even though I’m pretty fucking sure I stopped growing. Dad always said I was eating him out of house and home, and...

  “Hey, Ross,” dream-girl says, still leaning over me. “Sorry I woke you up. You were mumbling in your sleep, and I thought...”

  “What?”

  A shrug. “You looked like you were having a nightmare.”

  Her words drop like pebbles in the night, settle. She straightens and I sit up. “You’re really here.”

  Her laughter is a bright spark, her teeth a flash of white. “Yeah. What are you still doing out here?”

  I glance at the house door and shiver. No, I really don’t wanna go inside, not even feeling as shitty as I am.

  The movement makes me realize that the pain in my body is real, as much as the girl, spreading from my side to my back and chest. No wonder I dreamed of dad. He and pain are bound together, one and the same, a wound that won’t heal.

  “Ross.” She moves away, then returns, pulling an old stool from under the window and sits beside me, a covered plate in her hand. She also has a plastic bottle, wet with condensation, and a plastic sheet of pills. “Here.”

  “What’s that?” I’m goddamn dizzy, that’s the goddamn truth, and sitting up makes it worse, so I lay back, struggling to hide it.

  “Figured you could use some dinner,” she says, “some painkillers... and some Gatorade. I thought it would do you good, since you won’t go to the docs.”

  I’m staring at her, back to thinking I’m dreaming, or else hallucinating. “What?”

  “Here. Brought you a spoon, too. Dig in, it’s warm.”

  When she places the bowl in my lap, automatically I reach for it, its warmth seeping into my hands. Damn she’s right. It’s growing cold out here, and the food smells great. I stuff my face before I manage to formulate the question that’s on the tip of my tongue.

  She’s quiet while I inhale her dad’s famous stew, and it’s damn good, that’s for sure, peppery and thick with potatoes and carrots and soft chunks of meat. After I’m done, just short of licking the bowl clean, wordlessly she passes me the pills and the bottle, and though the drink tastes like candy shit, it feels good going down my parched throat.

  I burp, stifling it too late.

  “Good to know you haven’t suddenly acquired manners,” she mutters, but she shoots me a quick grin that unsettles me even more.

  Okay, what the fuck is going on? I can’t take this shit anymore. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You didn’t like the stew?”

  “I did, it’s good, I...” Fuck. I lift the empty bottle in one hand, the empty bowl in the other and dunno if to give them back or smash them against the trees surrounding the house. “I don’t understand.”

  You. I don’t understand you.

  She sure doesn’t attempt to enlighten me, either. She stays sitting by my side, a mysterious, sexy little sphinx full of riddles and magic, drawing me to her even as I struggle to understand what’s going on in her cute head.

  We sit in silence, the river burbling along, the trees whispering, birds fluttering on the branches. The house groans as it settles into the night, wood contracting and furniture shifting. The house is haunted, I swear. Maybe by my mom. Maybe it’s dad’s angry ghost, wandering far from his bod
y.

  “So here’s the deal,” she finally says, her voice low. It still startles me. “I want you to answer a question for me.”

  She takes the bowl and the bottle for me, places them on the wooden floor, then folds her hands in her lap. She has small hands, I think, the fingers fine and long. And she has lips like soft pillows, I remember kissing them. I remember the shape of her body pressed to mine.

  Shit, and now I’m getting hard. My body’s declaration of lust the moment it felt better. My dick thinks it’s a fucking democracy in here.

  It’s more like anarchy, lately, more so since Luna came back. My mind’s a mess, my heart keeps pounding, I’ve sweated bullets the times I pissed her off, and my dick thinks it’s Christmas, permanently happy and up.

  And then her words sink in. “What question?”

  “It’s simple. Why were you always such an asshole to me? And to everyone?”

  A snarl rises in me. “It’s who I am.”

  “Be serious.”

  I am, but she seems to want more, so I try for flippant. “Well, I discovered early that the more obnoxious I am, the less people expect of me. And that suits me just fine. I don’t give a fuck.”

  As I say the words, though something inside me breaks. The words feel true. And yet wrong.

  I rub at my chest, at the tiny pain inside, confused at what it might mean.

  And she has stilled, her face a mask, though there’s pain in her eyes—pain to match the aching crack in my chest.

  “Right,” she says, her voice brittle as she stands up and starts down the steps. “Take care of yourself, Ross.”

  Leaving. She’s leaving.

  I succeeded in pushing her away, like everyone around me. And for some reason, with her, I can’t fucking stand it. Can’t stand myself.

  “Luna, wait.” I start to get up from the rocking chair, and my side hurts, everything hurts, inside and out, but I make it to my feet. “Wait, goddammit.”